


Six Types of Love

by CharlieBravoWhiskey



Series: Lexicon:  A Study in Linguistics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Insanity, Love, Love Confessions, OFC - Freeform, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:03:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieBravoWhiskey/pseuds/CharlieBravoWhiskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study of characters and love in all its insane forms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pragma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Random_Nexus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/gifts), [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts).



> Character studies of some of my favorite characters. It may or may not stay within the Sherlock fandom....currently, it does.
> 
> This chapter is for [Random-Nexus](http://random-nexus.tumblr.com) who constantly frustrates me with her fics...but in a good way.

_Pragma: Love that is driven by the head, not the heart....undemonstrative and lack of emotion._

__Mycroft Holmes, of course, loved his brother. This did not necessarily mean that he liked his brother. Mycroft would not voluntarily spend time with Sherlock, but he did it anyway because Mycroft felt that he owed it to their mother. So, Mycroft, the ever obedient eldest son would try and contact Sherlock whether it was via text, phone or a personal visit to 221B Baker Street.

Texting and phoning the younger Holmes brother never worked and since Mycroft was a persistent sort he always ended up visiting Baker street.

Personal visits was something Mycroft detested.

Baker Street was not near his office, his home or the Diogenes Club and Mycroft Holmes sincerely hated traveling anywhere outside his sphere. He was a creature of ingrained habits, highly conscious of social mores and cues, while simultaneously snubbing his nose at them. Mycroft knew that he was a study in deep contrasts, but he was a Holmes - they were all conscious of their dual natures, even Sherlock. Nevertheless, if Mycroft had to travel outside his tightly woven sphere it tended to make the man very, very cross.

Even if he did not outwardly show it.

Naturally, Sherlock always knew how his brother felt and exacerbated Mycroft's already volatile mood by ignoring, insulting or playing his violin at an alarming volume - often making the instrument (and neighbors) screech in protest.

Oftentimes, Sherlock’s flatmate, John Watson, would come home to find Mycroft and Sherlock engaged in a silent war of wills. John stifled his laughter seeing the two Holmes brothers so engrossed in their childish war; with Sherlock's face scrunched up in a angry and bitter expression while Mycroft's expression was smugly calm. Once John had found the two grown men nose-to-nose staring each other down, silently daring the other to break his silence. Both were naturally cross and both were unaware that they were cross-eyed, red faced with their hands clutching the sides of the chairs in what looked like pain.

It took all that John had not to burst out laughing when he walked in.

On the rare occasions that John had managed to sneak up on the Holmes brothers, John could always see the slightly pained expression in Mycroft’s eyes - even if Sherlock never did. John was sure he had that same look whenever he visited with Harry and was willing to cut Mycroft a little (just a little) slack.

Family, John and Mycroft thought separately, were not the easiest people to engage in relationships.

During those occasions when John had interrupted their war of wills, Mycroft’s forehead wrinkled and something like intense annoyance passed across his face before settling into his usual smug expression. Mycroft hated stalemates and to be constantly put into one by his brother was just tiresome.

Sherlock, on the other hand, merely took John’s question (always if either one of them wanted tea) as the excuse it was and turned his piercing gaze onto his flatmate and snapped with a "Milk, no sugar." John inevitably turned to hide his smile from Mycroft and Sherlock as he went about making their tea.

Oh, how Mycroft longed to peer into Dr. Watson’s most unfathomable mind. What was it about this former Army Captain that managed to tame his brother somewhat? They did not certainly seem to be in a romantic relationship, but Mycroft could not confirm this silently bowing to Sherlock’s wishes to desist spying on their flat. (Mycroft certainly did not desist completely, mind you, but managed to keep his spying down to a weekly occurrence instead of the daily, once it became final that Dr. Watson would be moving in.)

In the solace of his home, Mycroft thought further about the deceptive John Watson. Like Sherlock, Mycroft did not consider himself to have many, if any, friends; acquaintances, yes, but certainly not friends. While he did not necessarily miss having the camaraderie of others Mycroft could not miss the fact that it hurt Sherlock greatly to be called a freak and to remain so perfectly alone. Mycroft, however, could not alleviate Sherlock’s loneliness. Both men had done numerous injustices to each that furthered the divide between them. And both men did not have the slightest idea how breach that gap.

Being the big brother (both literally and figuratively) Mycroft was very very wary when John Watson seemingly popped out of nowhere and into Sherlock’s life. Mycroft squashed the feelings of familial love and called it duty instead. He was doing it (Mycroft told himself) for their mother and not for love or concern on Sherlock’s behalf. _Never_ for love or concern. _Never._

_Just no._

__And try as he might, Mycroft could not spin the initial kidnapping into anything else _but_ a kidnapping.

Truly, though, if pressed, Mycroft would have considered his kidnapping of John H. Watson the most gentle of his kidnappings. And if pressed again - this time under considerable physical pain - Mycroft needed to know that this seemingly ordinary man wasn’t going to hurt his only brother. Sherlock, Mycroft knew, had had enough pain and hurt to last him several lifetimes.

Mycroft did not like knowing that he was one of those people who had caused Sherlock that pain and hurt.

If one asked Mycroft’s many contacts and acquaintances, they would respond that they never quite knew where they stood with Mycroft Holmes - he was such a completely and utterly undemonstrative type of person. It took Sherlock by surprise (and much suspicion) to find out that Mycroft had kept his word of not spying on them constantly and kept it to a minimum. Sherlock briefly considered that Mycroft had ulterior motives but it was too much unlike him that Sherlock forced himself to discard the theory.

What Sherlock had deduced, however, that his brother might have liked the solid doctor, might even have admired him, but knowing Mycroft, he would never say this outloud anyone. And thus, being uncharacteristically kind said nothing to Mycroft - not even to irk or irritate the older man.

If one delved further into the psyche of Mycroft Holmes one could say that he was...jealous of Sherlock’s friendship with the not-so-normal John. Mycroft wondered what it was like to have such an ally and confidante as John Watson. But Mycroft knew better than to try and seek someone out as such. It would just end badly. No one knew of Mycroft’s jealousy, of course, not even Sherlock, but Mycroft had a feeling that Anthea knew...but wise woman that she was, kept it to herself.

Anthea had her own theories, of course. But what they were no one would ever know.

Mycroft’s admiration for John surprised him greatly which was why he ultimately had kept John in place at 221B Baker Street. John was someone that Sherlock trusted and despite his previous misgivings secretly owned up to the fact that Mycroft trusted John as well...even if John did not trust Mycroft Holmes one tiny bit.

He didn’t blame him, not really. Mycroft supposed that he was being a bit dramatic when he took John the first night. He bit back a surprised and genuine grin when John had called Mycroft on his own dramatics. No one, of course, ever had the gall to do so.

Drama, naturally, was Sherlock’s area. He blamed their mother but told no one.

John’s trust of Mycroft was shaky at best and nonexistent at worst. Oh, John tried to trust Mycroft but it was slow going ever since _that unpleasant episode_. Mycroft wasn’t willing to completely forgive himself and really neither was John. Sherlock was, of course, indifferent to his brother’s inner turmoil and never bothered to correct his friend when John got a bit...exuberant in his shouting regarding all things Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft was authentically amused one day to find a CCTV feed of John Watson yelling and shaking his fist at one of the ubiquitous cameras. Mycroft clearly could read John’s lips regarding what he could do with the bugs he and Sherlock had found in their flat. He bit back a smile and chose, instead, to send a care package of sorts to 221B Baker Street that included the tea that John preferred but was difficult to find, a set of very expensive chemistry glassware that Sherlock had wanted and even a new set of pans for Mrs. Hudson.

The next day, the CCTV feed showed a still irate John Watson but instead of the ranting and raving that Mycroft expected, John was giving a terse thank you. A corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted as he watched the soldier in John Watson giving an about face and neatly walk away.

Mycroft sighed and ran a hand through his thinning reddish hair. Truthfully, Mycroft wished that he had a better relationship with his only brother. But their too similar personalities and their shared past just deterred them time and time again. So, Mycroft and Sherlock went round and round each other sniping and never expressing what needed to be said.

John Watson could easily express all the emotion that Mycroft could not, which made Sherlock Holmes a very, very lucky man to have John as a friend.


	2. Ludos, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludus: a love that is played as a game or sport; conquest; may have multiple partners at once.
> 
> Jim oh so loves to play the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another character study, accidentally prompted by Random-Nexus; this one was originally written for songlin in one of those ask-box fics memes that goes around periodically. If the voice and tone seem to go in and out between several different styles...well, that’s deliberate. It is Jim Moriarty after all.
> 
> Not beta’ed. Brit-picked. 
> 
> Nothing belongs me.
> 
> This chapter belongs to [Songlin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin)

_Ludus:  a love that is played as a game or sport; conquest; may have multiple partners at once._  
  
James Moriarty was in love. It was an undeniable fact of his life.  He was completely and utterly in head over heels in love.  
  
With himself, of course. No narcissist could _ever_ be happy with anyone else.  I mean,seriously, who could possibly measure up to James Moriarty, the World’s Only Consulting Criminal?  Exactly.  No fucking one.  
  
Sherlock Holmes certainly gave Jim a run for his money, of course.  But other than the World’s Only Consulting Detective, no one, no event, _nothing_ was ever going to top Jim’s love for what Sherlock had mistakenly called to as “the Game.”    
  
Jim's version of "the Game" was more sinister, deadlier and just more exciting than what bloody normal people had.  He loved playing "the Game," loved it, loved it, loved it.  He saw it as a sport, a conquest.  His main goal (if he were mundane as to say that he had “goals”) in life was to burn as many people as he possibly could in the most tortuous way possible.  
  
He was not discriminate in the pawns he played with; in fact, the more pawns, the better.  So many pawns, so little time!  But right before Sherlock, Jim was fast becoming bored with the normal pawns and longed to find someone, somewhere who could match wits with him.  
  
And find him, he did.  Or rather Moran found Sherlock for Jim.  Jim couldn’t be asked to do his own research.  ( _Daddy’s getting boooreed!)_ Sherlock Holmes, however, was a man beyond reason.  A man with a great big brain that actually saw the world around him.  And Jim was thrilled beyond reason. He was so thrilled Jim decided _not_ to kill the man who had fucked up the simplest of instructions.    
  
He decided to kill his twin brother instead.  
  
Sherlock was James Moriarty’s complete opposite in almost everything in life but Sherlock’s _mind._ Oh, god, his _mind._ His mind was so beautiful.  So complex, so _unlike the common people._ Oh, Jim was giddy.  So, so very giddy.  It had been a very long time since he someone who could play at Jim’s level.    
  
Jim actually licked his lips when Moran dropped Sherlock’s file in his lap.  He was delicious (in all senses of the word). And Jim was going to enjoy every minute of bringing destruction down on Sherlock’s head.  
  
So, he did all his research on Sherlock,  his emotions running high until he realized that the World’s Only Consulting Detective was...well, Jim could hardly stand to think it, much less say it out loud.  And poor Jim, he was so cross for the rest of the day that he couldn’t watch the CCTV feeds where he had sent his assassins to kill the pawns who had crossed him.  
  
Well.  This just wouldn’t do at _all,_ of course.  Jim had his network of people, those he controlled, cajoled, blackmailed and employed; none of which could ever be as clever or intelligent as Jim, of course.  But this _Sherlock Holmes._  If Jim could not bring him to his side, then Jim would do everything in his power to burn him.    
  
Oh, yes, Sherlock showed great, great potential. And oh, did genius _love_ an audience.  Jim Moriarty loved to show off.  Naturally, so did Sherlock Holmes.  Surely, Sherlock wouldn’t deny another genius his audience...wouldn’t he?  
  
But really?  Solving crimes?  Truly?  All that wasted intellect…on those who don’t even think for themselves?  Truly, truly wasted.  It made Jim’s heart _break._

Well, it would break if Jim Moriarty _had_ a heart to break.  
  
Luckily for the World’s Only Consulting Detective, there was James Moriarty.  Jim was put on the Earth, he was sure, to break Sherlock Holmes in any way that he could.  
  
And Jim thought it was time that Sherlock actually _played the Game_.  
  
So, Jim selected his first pawn, an above-average cabbie with a medical condition.  What was his name?  Oh, who cares.  He was just a pawn to Jim.  To sweeten the deal, Jim offered the unfortunate cabbie money for his kids.   _Oh, how sweet.  His kids!_  Of course, Jim never intended to pay money towards ensuring the future of the cabbie’s kids.  That would’ve been just...too...no.  We’ll not think about that, shall we?  
  
Jim set the pieces in motion and idly watched Sherlock play.  Then Jim took real notice when the cabbie – Geoff?  Ah, yes!  It was Geoff! – managed to get the brilliant detective into his cab and off to a quiet little building on the outskirts of town.  Jim watched with mounting interest as the two played their little chess match.  He was watching so intently that he did not notice the man running after Sherlock and the cabbie.  He had his network and eyes trained on the building where they slipped into but not the building right next door.    
  
Nothing else was quite so interesting as watching Sherlock Holmes.  Sebastian refrained from rolling his eyes.  Honestly, Jim was like a schoolgirl with a crush on an older student.  It was so disgusting that Moran just wanted to vomit and continue to vomit until Jim got it out of his system.  It was during these times that Moran just wanted to stab his own eyes.  
  
Jim’s eyes glazed over as he continued watching the back and forth between the cabbie and Sherlock. And oh!  How he loved to watch Sherlock contemplate the pill.  He almost had him!  Almost!  So fucking close! Jim had actually rubbed his hands in glee until he caught Moran giving him a look that clearly said stop.  And Jim had put his hands down and had to sit on them to keep from rubbing them together again.  
  
As Jim watched the video feed a creeping sensation began to stir in his mind.  Jim should have known that there was a wild card in the form of an ex-Army captain.   _Stupid, stupid, Jim!  There’s always a catch! Always plan for a fucking catch!_  
  
A flurry of movement then caught Jim’s eye.  And then things went to hell for Jim.    
  
That bullet…that bullet! came from the building across the way and then Jim was tearing his hair out. Why the fuck hadn’t he considered that little man?  He was so plain. 

So normal looking.  Where was his head that he didn’t even notice that man right there in front of him!  Oh, he should have _known._ Jim could only calm himself down by watching the video again.  
  
Oh, that look on Sherlock’s face.  That was delicious.   Jim caught himself licking his lips.  Jim didn’t care anymore.  He was so happy to be playing…Sherlock and his pet!  This was _fun._ Two for the price of one!  But the plan now needed a little more...well, planning.

Something that drove Jim a little (more) insane, but it helped keep Jim _focused_ to remember that his end goal was to burn Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Or rather burn the heart out of him.    
  
Admitted, Jim had to acknowledge that he had to play at being normal.  He rolled his shoulders and cracked his joints.  If he was going to do it, he needed someone so...harmless that Sherlock would never notice.  
  
And that someone harmless turned out to be one Molly Hopper, medical examiner.  So, he submitted himself to playing at Molly’s boyfriend (So, dull!), working in an office and being plain, normal and so so _boring_.  It was all so tedious!  And repetitive!  And did I mention, dull?   Jim wanted to cry.

Moran just rolled his eyes (for the hundredth time) and handed his boss a box of tissues.  

Which Jim handed back to him intact but filled with something other than tissues.  Sebastian frowned and threw the soggy, bloody mess into the fire.  He was used to his boss’s rantings and ravings.  He had to be if Moran wanted to survive under Moriarty.  Moran was quite sure that he needed his head to be checked, but couldn’t be bothered.  This was more fun than his stint in the Army before that _doctor_ took it all away from him.  
  
Wait a minute.  Moran squinted at the video footage from Shan’s attempted kidnapping of Sherlock Holmes.   _I am a motherfucker,_ thought Moran and smiled broadly. He redoubled his efforts in helping Moriarty but did not inform him of his newfound reason.  
  
Jim never knew that the oh, so good, Dr. John Watson, was the same person who had sent Moran flying out of the Army on his ear.  Jim may have cared.  Maybe.  But Moran wanted just a little slice of the pie, so he kept his mouth firmly shut.  
  
Jim, however, just wanted to (naturally) eviscerate someone and he didn’t care who the victim was.    
  
Luckily, (some might say unluckily) Shan had royally fucked up in her attempted kidnapping.   _Oh, of  course that wasn’t Sherlock Holmes! Anyone with bloody eyes could see that little fact!_  While Shan almost had Sherlock in his grasp, Jim was meant to do the deed himself not Shan.  So, while it would have been amusing to see John’s little girlfriend be impaled, he was almost glad that it didn’t happen.    
  
Almost.  
  
But what was quite certain was Jim’s boredom with Shan.  She had lost him two very valuable smugglers, one very angry associate and his sister and almost the element of surprise on Sherlock Holmes.  So, he idly sent Sebastian to kill her with a wave of his hand.  
  
Jim was so bored that he didn’t even watch the video feed of Moran pulling the trigger on the surprised and frightened Shan.   _Served her right, trying to steal my thunder._  
  
Besides, Jim had bigger plans and one less pawn wasn’t going to make him cry.  He always did want _more_ of everything for himself.  It never mattered the condition...he just wanted _everything. Right fucking now._    
  
Late at night, while Jim was drifting off to sleep, he would think about the whole five pips game.

That had been sooo fun!  Jim only wished that more people had succumbed in trying to describe him to Sherlock and his pet.  Just that old woman.  But blowing up that building had almost made up for it.    
  
Almost.  
  
This time, Jim did nothing to hide his gleeful hand rubbing.  He ignored the looks he was getting from Sebastian.  Jim briefly thought that Sebastian Moran was getting a little too full of himself.  No matter, however, Jim would teach him manners later on.    
  
The last piece of the game, Jim decided, was something he wanted to get himself.  And it was oh so easy to pluck John Watson off the street.  Oh, so easy.  Just one distraction and instant John Watson sedated in the backseat of his car. 

One would almost say that the oh-so-good-Dr. Watson was used to being abducted right off the street.  
  
Jim loved watching his words come out of the good Doctor’s mouth.  He _fucking loved_ watching Sherlock Holmes crumble for shock, dismay, anger, hurt ( _Oh! The World’s Only Consulting Detective can be hurt!)_ to the final realization that they were both being played.    
  
Jim had to contain himself from practically skipping into the pool.  Oh, did love such a good game!  
  
But it wasn’t going to end right now.  He had them where he wanted them.  And oh, did it feel so good.  But James Moriarty had bigger fish to fry.  And he knew that no one was going to stop him from leaving.  Jim laughed silently knowing that Sherlock had to be tearing his hair out.    
  
Go after Jim or save his best friend?  
  
It was all so _obvious._  
  
Of course, Jim could not resist a bit more taunting of Sherlock and his pet.  But ultimately he was called away from the pool, dancing all the way...well, at least in his head he was dancing.  
  
The Game would continue.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I didn't know that this chapter demanded that it be split into two. You'll recognize, naturally, where the break was. I must do more research into series two before fully finishing this chapter.
> 
> Reviews are nice but not necessarily for my mental well-being.


	3. Ludos, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James Moriarty reflects his love of the game and the manipulation of his pawns. The second part to Ludos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Another character study, accidentally prompted by Random-Nexus; this one was originally written for songlin in one of those ask-box fics memes that goes around periodically. If the voice and tone seem to go in and out between several different styles...well, that’s deliberate. It is Jim Moriarty after all.
> 
> 2\. Not beta’ed or Brit-picked what is written here is under my complete and utter ignorance. I’ve done as much research as possible before finally saying screw it and just write the damn thing.
> 
> 3\. Nothing belongs me.
> 
> 4\. A continuation of the first part which is really series one. Here is where Ludos concludes.
> 
> 5\. By the way, word for word dialogue I got from here. It was invaluable. Thank you.

 

 

_Ludus:  a love that is played as a game or sport; conquest; may have multiple partners at once._  
  
Oh, Jim was soooo close.  So, very fucking close!  He had Sherlock Holmes right in the palm of his hand!  But...but the one thing that James Moriarty could not guarantee was seeing the look on Sherlock’s face. He had to do what he had to do in order to force Sherlock to finish the game.    
  
Because one, must always finish the game.  
  
There on the roof of much talked about St. Bartholomew’s Hospital stand two chess pieces.  Kings because of their gender, but more like queens because of the power they hold...well, one of them anyway; the other would not grace a response. _(And Honey, you should really see him in a crown!)_ In another time and another place, there would be much squealing giggling and perhaps jumping up and down.  But, alas, that would never happen.  
  
Jim Moriarty was having so much fun with this little game.  But like all games, Jim knew that this would have to end much too soon.  Jim inwardly sighed.  He did so love the end gambits of games.  Well, Jim loved _everything_ about games.  But it was the end that made him the happiest.  That and the blood.    
  
What?  Most people don’t _have_ blood in their games?  Well, most people were certainly not Jim Moriarty and therefore, most (all) people were dull and boring.  And yes, there would be blood. Lots of blood, if Jim had his way.  Jim just didn’t care where the blood came from.    
  
Oh, and his own end gambit had been made months ago.  Jim, being the master manipulator, knew that Sherlock already had the final solution figured out.  Oh, clever, clever Sherlock!    
  
But not clever enough.    
  
Jim was going to miss this grand game of their’s.  It could have been such a beautiful friendship.  But no, Sherlock just had to discover that he had a heart.  Sherlock just _had_ to discover that he cared.  Sherlock just _had_ to discover that _other people now mattered._    
  
Boring!  
  
Jim felt his eyes crossing standing on the roof.  More talk.  Jim hated talking.  He loved action.  Lots of action.  But he knew (how dull!) that he had to keep talking to get the Sherlock’s pawns and his three bishops into place.  And before you even ask, of course Jim didn’t play fair.  Haven’t you been paying attention?    
  
Of course not.    
  
To be sure, Jim choose three of Sherlock’s most important pawns; and Molly, of course, never crossed his mind.  He hated her simpering, spinelessness.  She was so dishwater brown, it hurt his teeth.  However, if he had known things might have been different.  Jim might have developed a plan B.    
  
Maybe.  Jim did love to fly by the seat of his pants.  Except when he wasn’t.    
  
But that is neither here nor there.  
  
Jim predicted that Sherlock would have a gun on him.  Jim knew that Sherlock would tuck it where he could easily get it away from him.  Jim _just knew_ the look Sherlock wore when he put the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.  If Jim had the ability to rewind that scene over and over again in his mind, he would.  Oh, he so would.    
  
Jim knew that he won this battle.  
  
But Jim didn’t know that he had ultimately lost the war.  
  
But again, that is neither here nor there.  
  
Before rejoining the lovely little scene on top of St. Bart’s, Jim’s network was hard at work setting everything into motion.  It took much time and lots of work but the pay-off was going to be oh, so worth it.  Jim knew this in his bones.  And he had so many little pawns who were unwittingly playing his game!    
  
Sebastian had caught him cackling in glee again.  Jim did not mind...really he did not care.  Things were progressing along at a very interesting clip.  Jim was going to reward his lovely little Sebastian by giving him the honor of killing the oh-so-good Dr. John Watson.  Jim did not know why Sebastian was so intent on offing Sherlock’s pet Watson - he was sure that Sebby had his reasons.    
  
And oh, that lovely little reporter was such a joy to play with.  But again, she was just another pawn to be used and discarded as soon as her usefulness was over.  He had heard a little rumor about what she said to Sherlock but he just shrugged it off.  She was inconsequential now.  
  
And really, there was only one person Jim could rely on and currently, Moran was setting himself up at a comfortable distance and taking aim.  Jim briefly regretted not telling Sebastian about his plan; he might have tried to talk Jim out of going through with it!  But really, it was the only way to end the game properly.  Sure Sebby just had to know this, right?  
  
Well, it did not matter if Sebastian knew this or not.  It was ending soon.    
  
If Sherlock wasn’t going play his game then, Jim had to be sure to _make_ him play his game.  If only Jim could clone Sebastian.  But no, he had to rely on other assassins to keep tabs on Sherlock’s other hearts.  To be sure his assassins were taking their places (he had little insurance policies for them, of course) - one assassin for that smart cookie of a “not-your-housekeeper” and another assassin for that delicious Detective Inspector.  Too bad Jim didn’t have enough time to play with that particular pawn.  How he would have loved to do it!  
  
Moriarty was, for once, glad that Moran was not around while the thought about the Detective Inspector.  Jim was often jumping up and down while thinking of the Detective Inspector and his would be plans for him.  
  
Jim had loved manipulating so many people.  It made him positively giddy with delight.  All these pawns and none of them using their brains!  Even clever Sherlock...his heart was getting in the way of his gamesmanship.  It was clearly evident that Sherlock Holmes had a heart...no matter what the Consulting Detective said.  And Jim was going to enjoy burning it right in front of the braggart.    
  
So, so many pawns.  Even his beloved Sebastian was really just a pawn; it was true that Sebastian was a pawn with a very useful skill and a twisted mind but Moran did not possess the intellect like he had!  Dear, dear Sebastian.  Whatever would become of him after he was gone?  Did he have the brains to carry on?  Clearly not, but there was enough assignments for Sebby to carry out for the next three years.  That should get him through the doldrums.    
  
And really, if the truth were known, Jim Moriarty had grown a little tired of this life.  He longed for something else...he just did not know what that “something else” was.  No matter.  Jim was not one for navel gazing anyway.  He had his game and his conquests to think about naturally.  
  
  
Jim giggled to himself thinking about his conquests, his little manipulations.    
  
Molly was an interesting conquest.  She turned out to be dull, but there was something in the back of his head that bothered him about the little brown mouse that was Molly Hooper.  Once or twice, Jim had run up against a steely will but that was rare and he never retained that knowledge.  He supposed that she was a little bit clever, not not clever enough to be of consequence.  Really, Jim couldn’t be bothered.    
  
There were those jurors during that beautiful little trial...a little pressure here and there and oh! watch a playing card house come tumbling down!  A little snack that one was.  Not one to satisfy his hunger, naturally.  
  
Irene Adler...oh, she was an interesting one.  Just as clever as Sherlock Holmes, to be sure, but ultimately, the lovely Ms. Adler turned out to have an easily breakable heart just like the rest of them.  Typical, but not unsurprising.  If he had bothered he could have figured her weakness after all.    
Ms. Adler was just as clever as Sherlock but was more devious, calculating and cold.  But not too cold, Jim found out.  She had wanted what everyone else wanted - a little bit of love and assurance.    
  
Plus, Irene didn’t really think that she could get away from Jim that easily, did she?  The first time Irene had escaped Jim’s clutches, Jim almost giggled it was so laughable.  Those people she knew what they liked?  Well, _of course_ Jim knew what would get _them killed._ He’d purposely set it up that way.    
  
Oh, but the second time Irene had escaped Moriarty’s clutches...that was a doozy.  Jim should have known that the Great Sherlock Holmes would find a way to rescue his almost lady love and at the expense of his beloved beloved pet doctor!  That had pleased him enough to let the Indomitable Irene Adler go...Jim knew that Sherlock had saved her at the last minute.  Of course, he did.  His network was everywhere.  Eventually, Sebastian or one of his other shining network spies would take care of her.  She was on the three year list that Jim had drawn up for Sebby.  So many people, not enough time.    
  
Never enough time.  
  
Irene, naturally, was a master manipulator and she seemed to know what everyone _liked_.  Plus, she had those whips and crops!  Oh, that was fun!  And while the wiley Ms. Adler had not used either instruments on him (no one would _ever_ have that opportunity), it was fun watching Irene do what she did best.    
  
How Jim had loved manipulating Mycroft Holmes not once!  But twice!  Oh, that was a delight.  Mycroft was such a joy.  He loved watching him squirm and manipulate his _own brother!_  Oh, Mr. Holmes.  Oh, dear me, Mr. Holmes.    
  
Oh, and how it delighted Jim to know that Mycroft was just as clever as Sherlock!  Just as infuriating, to be sure, but just as intelligent.  Short sighted and hated running about London unlike his brother.  It just wasn’t as fun as making Sherlock dance and hop about.  Besides, Mycroft did not have a built in pet, like Sherlock did, but one wondered about the assistant that trailed along side of him...ultimately, Jim decided to ignore her.  She never glanced at him anyway.    
  
She was interesting, certainly, but until the young did something besides look at her phone then Jim Moriarty wasn’t going to bother with her.  
  
Jim relished the look on Mycroft’s face when he came to his cell door to release him.  Oh, Mycroft, so unreadable and readable all at the same time.  It was such a shame that no one ever _looked beneath the surface._  Jim Moriarty knew that both Holmes brothers were probably misdiagnosed when they younger, probably - much like himself.    
  
If Mycroft had ever consented to being evaluated, of course, which Jim doubted very much.  Mycroft could manipulate the situation easier than dear Sherlock.    
  
But Jim Moriarty could diagnose issues with the best of of them.  He knew enough of boring people’s boring motivations and boring desires to know what Mycroft wanted.  And Mycroft played beautifully into Jim’s hands which led to Jim ultimately chose not to set an assassin after the elder Holmes.  Despite what Sherlock thought about his elder brother, Jim actually _needed_ Mycroft’s connections.    
  
Oh, yes.  His network had infiltrated the British government.  And don’t you ever forget it, Honey.  
  
So, here they were.  The Great Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Only Consulting Detective, and James Moriarty, the World’s Only Consulting Criminal, both standing on the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital.  Everyone should be in place by now, surely, Jim thought.  Jim was quickly running out of patience, but to give his network more time, Jim Moriarty kept Sherlock Holmes talking.  
  
“Naah, you _talk_ big.  Naah, you’re oridnary.  You’re ordinary - you’re on the side of the angels,”Jim said, his gaze piercing Sherlock.   _Anytime now.  Anytime now, this game will end._  
  
“Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them,” Sherlock snapped back.  Jim paused a tiny bit.  There was that... _something_ started tickling the back of his brain.  But Jim was having too much fun to actually pay attention.  Instead, Jim plowed on, ignoring the little feeling.  
  
“No, you’re not,” Jim finally said.  He closed his eyes, seeing his network casting its net over London.  The thought pleased him and caused him to open his eyes again.  Jim wanted badly to rub his hands togethers.  Typical and ordinary, perhaps, but Jim really, really wanted to do it.  “I see.  You’re not ordinary.  No.  You’re me.”  Jim started laughing, his reality breaking more and more.  “You’re me!  Thank you!”  Jim felt his pulse quickening.  It was going to end soon, he knew this.  It was going to end very, very soon for the both of them.  “Sherlock Holmes,” Jim offered his hand waiting patiently for Sherlock to take it.  “Thank you.  Bless you.”  Jim suddenly felt very choked up all of a sudden.  “As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends; you’ve got a way out.”  Jim paused again, feeling the gun in hand, something Sherlock did not notice.  “Well, good luck with that.”  And with a brilliant flurry of movements, Jim managed to retain Sherlock’s look of surprise as Jim pulled the trigger of the gun that he had placed in his mouth.    
  
Oh, yes.  One must always play the game.    
  
One must _always finish the game._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are nice but not necessary for my mental or emotional well-being. As always, if you find something completely and utter wrong please let me know and I will do my best to address it.


	4. Agape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love and Molly Hooper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Character studies in and around the Sherlock Fandom.  
> 2\. Not beta-read.  
> 3\. Not Brit picked.  
> 4\. Not medically researched.  
> 5\. Is Molly out of character? I don’t know anymore.  
> 6\. I own nothing and therefore do no profit.

_Agape:  selfless altruistic love, spiritual love, self-sacrificing, all-encompassing love._  
  
Molly Hooper was a good girl, at least that was what was repeated to her time and time again when she was growing up.  And she was.  Molly was a good girl.  She was a kind, decent, caring girl.  The kind of girl that all mothers wanted for their sons.  The kind of girl most boys thought was boring.  
  
But she was someone who cared too much for her own good.  Molly was often trampled under foot by people who took advantage of her kind and caring personality.  
  
Molly tried to hide her true nature.  But time and time again, it reared its ugly head and left Molly tending to her own broken heart.  She knew (or thought she knew) that people did not mean to hurt her so, but Molly could not help caring so much.  She offered so much of herself to others that she never thought of what exactly she wanted for herself or what other people’s motives truly were.    
  
She wanted what everyone else wanted in life:  to be loved, cared for and thought important.  Most importantly, she wanted to heal the hurts that she saw in other people.    
  
This was why Molly became a doctor.  She wanted to fix people and the thought of mending herself (yet again) had become too much for her.    
  
And Molly knew that being a doctor would grant her some kind of respect from others.  
  
She had done well in her studies, in fact, extremely well.  Molly Hooper was at the top of her classes in almost everything.  Unfortunately, that fact did not stop Molly from being passed over in the more plum positions in and around London.  It was only through the intervention of one of her kindly professors (Bless that kind-hearted woman!) that Molly was finally granted an interview for the forensics physician at St. Bart’s Hospital.  
  
It was some sort of blessing, she decided, that Dr. Stamford had decided to hire Molly for the position.  It was another sort of blessing all together when Sherlock Holmes barged into her office one day demanding things as if he owned the place.  
  
A mixed blessing, if one asked Molly...which no one did, unfortunately.  
  
Molly wouldn’t have had it any other way.  
  
“I need to borrow your lab and that nice lovely shipment of pig’s bladders that the first year residents will be examining later on,” the mysterious man said piercing Molly in place with that strange non-colored eyes of his.  “By the way, the name’s Sherlock Holmes and I’ll be downstairs in your lab when you’re ready,” he said turning on his heel housed in expensive shoes and walking out the door.  
  
Molly exhaled the breath she did not know she was holding and fixed her hands on her desk to steady herself.   Oh, Molly, what have you gotten yourself into?  
  
Molly could tell from just one glance that this tall and mysterious Sherlock Holmes was high as a kite with his bloodshot eyes and pupils the size of quarters ( Just what color were his eyes, anyway?), hands trembling and his thin as a railing frame...though, Molly wasn’t sure if this Sherlock Holmes wasn’t just naturally very very thin or if this was an effect of the drug he was on.    
  
She suspected cocaine.  She had certainly seen enough of the end effect of it.  And she would almost bet her life that Mr. Holmes never slept, ate properly and had horrible mood swings.  Molly also would have bet that he was horrible with social interaction.  She kept up this silent chatter as she timidly made her way downstairs to the lab, trying not to fixate on his razor sharp features or the way her heart sped up with thoughts of trying to “fix him.”  
  
Molly never realized that she was in too deep until it was much too late.  
  
And for Molly Hooper those two sentences from Sherlock Holmes was enough for the good doctor to fall in deep.    
  
That was about five years ago.  She had heard from Detective Inspector Lestrade that Sherlock was indeed high that day and very shortly had been admitted into an inpatient program outside of London.  A very exclusive and very private inpatient program...the ones that only royalty and celebrities could attend.  
  
She wondered who Sherlock had known to be even allowed within throwing distance of the facility.    
  
Because, of course, Molly had researched the facility.  She desperately wanted Sherlock to be free of his addictions...and to be clear headed enough to see her.  Molly, ever faithful, waited patiently for Sherlock.  She knew that she was only setting herself for heartbreak (again) by wanting this elusive, brilliant  and completely beautiful man. She knew in her heart that Sherlock was a good man, despite warnings from DI Lestrade, her mother and Dr. Stamford.    
  
Good men needed other good people beside them.  
  
Someone like her.    
  
Molly felt that she could be the person that Sherlock Holmes needed.  
  
But as time went on, Molly came to slowly and painfully realize that she was not the one to turn Sherlock Holmes into a great man.  That honor seemed to belong to one John Watson - someone that she had overlooked time and time again.  John, no Dr. Watson, seemed so nice and ordinary that she expected the entire world to overlook him as well, but obviously there was something more to him than Molly had realized.    
  
And Sherlock had realized it as well.  
  
When did that happen?  For all of Sherlock’s great observations and intellect, he never quite got the hang of what was so obviously in front of him.  
  
Molly had quietly approached the topic with Sherlock in one day in the lab.  Sherlock fixed her with that steely gaze of his that pierced Molly straight through her heart and soul.  Nothing was said for several minutes causing Molly great discomfort but she was getting better (she hoped) at holding Sherlock’s all-seeing gaze.  
  
“What changed for you, Molly Hooper?”  Sherlock finally said softly.  He set his hands down in his lap and continued to look at her.  This time, however, Sherlock’s gaze was softer, gentler and somehow more human.    
  
Molly blinked in surprise.  What had changed for her?  “I suppose it was the Christmas party at the flat.  The one where I accused you of saying awful things?  Yes, I think that was where things began to change for me,” Molly said, her eyes glazing over remembering.  Not too shortly afterwards Sherlock had received a call regarding the dead woman - Irene Adler.  Molly couldn’t help it, but at the time she had been jealous of a dead woman.  
  
She immediately felt horrible about the woman’s death and pushed it out of her mind.  Sherlock cleared his throat, bringing Molly back to the present.  She blushed and ducked her head.  “Are you ever going to tell him?” Molly whispered.    
  
“What I plan on doing or my feelings for him?” Sherlock said not bothering to play cat and mouse with her.  
  
“Both,” she said glancing up.  Sherlock recoiled slightly from Molly’s expression.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “It’s none of my business.”  
  
“You are correct.  However, I have...hurt and used you often enough that an explanation is in order,” Sherlock finally said, not looking at her.  
  
Molly nodded, barely realizing that he was not looking at her.  “You said before you thought you were going to die...implying that you thought you were going to die soon,” Molly went quiet thinking of the events within the past few weeks.  While Molly did not wish to read stories about Jim Moriarty or Richard Brook or whomever he was posing as this time, she could not help but be sucked into the growing theories surrounding Sherlock.    
  
There was a story by some writer named Kitty Riley that hinted about some scandal involving Sherlock.  Molly supposed that by being in his orbit that she, John, Gregory and even Mrs. Hudson would also be targeted as well.  Kitty Riley.  Molly desperately wanted to punch her in the face and perhaps break her nose.    
  
Even if Molly’s feelings for Sherlock had morphed into something else, Molly Hooper was still a very loyal and faithful person to Sherlock...even if he was just beginning to understand it himself.    
  
“I need John to...to think that I have died,” Sherlock said simply.  “The net is fast closing around me, Molly and I need to move fast.  I...just ran out of time telling John my feelings for him.  And to let him know after I “die” would ruin my plans to keep everyone safe.  I know of three assassins that are trained on John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.  I don’t think he calculated you into my equation, Molly, which is why you are the only person I can trust to help me,” Sherlock said quietly.  This was the first time she had heard Sherlock Holmes speak so humbly and so heartfelt.  This was unlike him and yet Molly just knew that this was at the core of Sherlock Holmes; these three people, four if she included herself made up the entire world that he inhabited.  
  
So many people were wrong about Sherlock.  So many people.    
  
“No, after all that I went through with Jim, he didn’t think I would have the nerve to help you,” Molly said closing her eyes.   She knew how the world saw her and while she tried to rally against their misconceptions Molly knew that she had to keep up appearances this time.  It wasn’t for her anymore.    
  
It was Sherlock.  
  
And it was for John.  
  
“And that is his fatal mistake, isn’t it, Molly?  He underestimated you,” Sherlock said quietly watching her emotions wash over her face.  “Like I have so many times,” he added even quieter.    
  
Molly gave him a watery smile.  “We can’t have people knowing the real me yet, can we?  We still have work to do,” she said trying to strengthen Sherlock’s reserve.  Molly straightened and looked Sherlock Holmes squarely in the eye.  “What do you need?”  
  
“You,” he said simply and began laying out his plan.  
  
***  
  
It was so difficult keeping up appearances after Sherlock “died.”  John was so nearly inconsolable that she nearly broke her reserve and told him that Sherlock was still alive.  Molly was still skitterish around Mycroft - she couldn’t believe that Sherlock hadn’t told his own brother! - but Mycroft was just as clever as Sherlock and he quickly calmed her fears and doubts one day with a slight raise of his eyebrows.    
  
Molly nearly fell over in shock but managed to keep it together.  Sherlock had sworn her to secrecy after all.    
  
“How did he do it?” Mycroft had asked startling her one late night at the labs.    
  
Molly tried not to smile and shook her head.  She stifled the rapid beating of her heart and tried to meet Mycroft Holmes’ gaze.  She caught him giving her a very calculated gaze before he nodded slightly.  
  
“Ah,” he said smiling slightly, a trace of real warmth in his face.  “Good night, Dr. Hooper.  I am sure that he will be as efficient as possible in ridding the world of the...spider’s web.”  
  
Molly nodded and waved at Mycroft as he retreated from her office.    
  
It took Sherlock three years.  
  
During that time Molly faithfully reported every happening regarding John, DI Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.  Her reports were mostly filled about John.  Sherlock, of course, never told her where he was nor did he ever thank Molly.  She knew that he was grateful.    
  
“Molly,” Sherlock’s voice whispered to her in the darkness of her living room as she came home later that same evening..  
  
Molly tried not to squeal.  “Sh-Sherlock?”  Her hand twitched as she forced her hands away from the pepper spray in her purse.  
  
“Don’t turn on any lights,” he said softly.  “I...I have never thanked you for helping me Molly in my time of need.  Nor have I ever thanked you for your...reports.”  Molly closed and locked the door behind her.  “Such love and devotion directed to a person who cannot possibly give it to you in return deserves so much more than just mere words.”  
  
Molly shook her head.  “Sherlock, I -”  
  
Sherlock cut her off.  “No, it’s true.  I know your feelings for me have transformed.  You deserve better than me.”  
  
Molly took a deep breathe.  “Sherlock, you deserve love and happiness too,” Molly said quickly.  She pictured the corner of his mouth tilting up ever so slightly.    
  
“Perhaps,” he said wryly.  “It won’t be easy.”  
  
“No, it certainly won’t be.  He’s going to punch you when he finds out,” Molly said not hiding her smile.  “He might punch me. ”  
  
Sherlock chuckled.  “No.  John would never hurt you.  He will undoubtedly like punch me however,” he said and then grew silent.  “There’s one more gunman, Molly.   John’s gunman.  He’s back here in London.  And...and he might come after you as well, if I’m not careful.”    
  
Molly’s knees gave out on her.  And then suddenly Sherlock was by her side placing a comforting arm around her shoulders.  They were still in the dark, one dark shape blending into another.  “I’m so sorry.  I shouldn’t have come here but I felt it was right to warn you.  Maybe you should see your parents for a while?”  Sherlock paused here.  “Or perhaps you can stay with...friends?”  
  
Molly, despite everything, could not fight the small but crooked grin on her face when she caught Sherlock’s meaning.  Then the weight of the situation settled on her again, wiping the smile from her face.  Molly leaned into her and sighed.  They sat in her dark living room, Sherlock’s arm around Molly’s shoulders, penitent and priestess; Sherlock giving Molly her courage that she so freely gave him three years ago.  
  
Finally, Sherlock pulled her to her feet.  “I still have work left to do, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said and hugged her tightly yet briefly.  “I hope your devotion to me has not been misplaced,” he said and quickly left her side.  
  
“I know it hasn’t been, Sherlock.  I believe in you and always have,” Molly said long after Sherlock had disappeared again into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are nice, but not necessary for my mental well-being. Thank you for reading.


	5. Mania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manic love: obsessive love; experience great emotional highs and lows; very possessive and often jealous lovers. Manic lovers often have low self-esteem, and place much importance on their relationship. Manic lovers speak of their partners in possessives and superlatives, and feel they "need" their partners. Love is a means of rescue, or a reinforcement of value. Manic lovers often discover their partners by haphazard means.
> 
> The advantage of manic love is intensity. The disadvantages include jealousy, possessiveness, and insatiability. In its extreme, mania becomes obsession or codependency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A study of love and characters within the BBC Sherlock universe.  
> 2\. Nothing belongs to me. Let me repeat, nothing belongs to me.  
> 3\. This is all Random-Nexus’s fault.  
> 4\. My apologies to the Pixies for nicking the lyrics in the proceeding paragraph. It was a bit too fitting.  
> 5\. A second apology to Lou Reed. It was just too...tempting.  
> 6\. Not beta read or Brit-picked. All faults are mine.  
> 7\. Time is fluid here. It’s all wibbly, wobbly, timey, wimey...stuff.  
> 8\. This may or may be a trigger...you have been warned and I am sorry.

_Manic love:  obsessive love; experience great emotional highs and lows; very possessive and often jealous lovers.  Manic lovers often have low self-esteem, and place much importance on their relationship. Manic lovers speak of their partners in possessives and superlatives, and feel they "need" their partners. Love is a means of rescue, or a reinforcement of value. Manic lovers often discover their partners by haphazard means._  
  
 _The advantage of manic love is intensity. The disadvantages include jealousy, possessiveness, and insatiability. In its extreme, mania becomes obsession or codependency._  
  
It starts with an insane need to quiet the swirling, loud thoughts in his head.  And if Sherlock Holmes was ever _truthful_ with himself (and he is often _not_ ) Sherlock would then have to confront his self-esteem...For all his bravado, coldness, and aloofness Sherlock has notoriously _low_ self-esteem.  Sherlock was never one to hang onto the past but his father’s coldness, his mother’s brittle nature and Mycroft’s (unintentional) abandonment cut Sherlock to the core further eviersated his fragile ego.    
  
Naturally, no one, not even the man himself, quite knew this and even if Sherlock did know this, chances are he would have promptly deleted it calling it useless, sentimental and unnecessary to The Work.    
  
So, with this bit of knowledge deleted from Sherlock’s massive intellect, he proceeded to get hopelessly addicted to cocaine.  Sherlock Holmes he never thought that he would become _addicted._ That was so _boring, pedestrian, common_.    
  
Addiction.    
  
And, moreover, it was for people who did not know _how to control themselves_.  During this point in Sherlock’s life there was no one he trusted to stop himself from such destructive behavior.  And, obviously and without knowing this, Sherlock could not exactly trust himself.  
  
Lestrade had only started being an addition to his life rather than someone annoying to continually delete from his mind.  And try as he might, Sherlock could not delete _Mycroft,_ from his mind.  (Sherlock would only under pain of death, admit that his brother might remotely be _useful_ to The Work.)  Not even the venerable Mrs. Hudson was there to reproach him.    
  
And John?  Well, John was far and away earning himself a nickname of Three Continents Watson, saving lives and being...well, being _John._    
  
All he had, he thought, was himself and Sherlock was not in the habit of curtailing his impulses.  
  
So, what started out as an experiment in trying to muffle or slow the thoughts in his head only served as a means of stimulating his brain.  He vaguely remembers solving a case for Lestrade while high and immediately crashing two blocks from the crime scene.  Unfortunately, he has crashed while walking through an alleyway and was not discovered until several hours later, half out of his mind, babbling incoherently and at a thousand miles per minute and covered in his own vomit.  It was lucky, Lestrade told him later, that no one of a criminal bent had found him first.  Sherlock, naturally, would only dismiss and immediately delete the statement.  
  
 _Need more.  Need more now.  Need more **right now.**  Who is that?  Who is that talking to me?  What am I doing on the floor?  Is this a floor?  Why is it so dirty?  Is this **my** floor?  Oh, well.  Oh, who is that?  Why is he talking to me?  He looks familiar.  I wonder if has met Mycroft?  Or Lestrade.  Oh, is that Lestrade?  Really?  That shirt with those pants?  Is he crazy?   Oh, wait, wait, wait.  Does he have a case for me?  Why can’t I focus properly?  Buzzing.  Buzzing.  Buzzing.  I need a tissue.  Right.  I need...something.  I need more.   **I need more right now.  I need more right now.  I need more right now.** I must find the dealer again.  He’ll sell me more.  I know he will.  He has to.  Why is Lestrade looking at me that way?  Wait?  What?  Lost cause?  I am not a lost cause!  I am a genius!  Why is he looking at my arms.  Why is he wiping my face?  Ah, I must be more careful of my arms.  Yes, right.  Is that Mycroft?  Oh, must be off his diet again.  I will have to ask him about it later on when I can sit up properly.  What **is** going on here?  Why does everyone look so...concerned?  Who are these people?  What are they doing?  Why are they picking me up?  Why are they peering into my eyes?  I’m perfectly fine you morons!  Where are you taking me?  Mycroft!  Where are they taking me?  Mycroft?!  Lestrade?!  What’s going on here?   **I need more right now.** Have you been watching me? Of course, everyone has been watching me.   **STOP WATCHING ME!  STOP IT RIGHT NOW!** Oh, it’s hurts.  It hurts! Nononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononono I CAN’T THINK OVER ALL THIS BABBLE!  Oh, my god.  Oh, my god.  Oh, my god.  What is wrong with me?  What is wrong with me?  What is wrong with me?  Why doesn’t anyone understand?  Why doesn’t Mycroft understand?  Mummy?  Anyone?  Lestrade?  Am I really destined to be alone for the rest of my life?  Was Victor correct?  Oh, god.  I need some more **right now.  I can’t think.  I can’t think.  I can’t think.** Why does my skin feel too tight?  Are my eyes still in my head?  Why is the world tilted?  Why is he looking at me like that?  Why are you yelling at me?  What have I done to you, you stupid, stupid little man?  Where is my mind?  Where is my mind?  With your feet in the air and your head on the ground, try this trick and spin it, yeah, your head will collapse, but there’s nothing in it and you’ll ask yourself...you’re going to reap just what you sow.  You’re going to reap just what you sow.  You’re going to reap just what you sow.  You’re going to reap just what you sow._  
  
Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered quickly, his eyes reacting to whatever stimulus went on in his mind.  Mycroft sighed and gently took his brother’s too pale, too gaunt hand and placed in it his own warm solid hand.  He stroked the veins and lines of his baby brother’s hand, careful to avoid the IV and pushed the overwhelming sadness that threatened to start leaking from his eyes.  The good Detective Inspector had found Sherlock in the nick of time - Sherlock covered in his own vomit about to choke to death and needle tracks up and down his arms.    
  
Mycroft felt that he had failed his little brother - again.  Time and time again, Mycroft Holmes felt he was a massive disappointment to his baby brother but he could never tell Sherlock this - not that he would believe his older brother.  And it galled Mycroft to no end of his failure.  And this...this stupid addiction had nearly destroyed his brilliant brother.  Sherlock’s hand twitched in his and for a brief second Mycroft looked completely and utterly terrified.  Sherlock hated Mycroft with every fiber of his being...or at least that was the impression Sherlock wanted to give the world.  In truth, Sherlock dearly loved his brother.  He just could not ever forgive Mycroft for abandoning him in their cold and lonely mansion of a house with their Father mysteriously gone and Mummy being...well, Mummy, it was no place for a boy to grow up in.  And Mycroft had tried so hard, so very, very hard to soften the blow for his baby brother.  But no.  It was all for naught as Sherlock’s resentment of his treasured older brother grew and grew until Sherlock could no longer see reason.    
  
“He’ll be fine. I am told,” Mycroft said softly as Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped quietly into the room.  His voice betrayed none of the emotion Mycroft Holmes currently felt.  
  
“Ah, that’s good,” Lestrade said pausing.  Mycroft did not need to turn around to see that the other man was fiddling nervously with his tie.  Nor did he need to turn around to notice that Lestrade was bone tired from work and inexplicably _worried_ about his baby brother.   _There are still some good men in this world,_ Mycroft thought sadly.   _I just wish he knew it._  
  
“Yes, he needs to go into rehab.  You and I both know this,” Mycroft said still not turning towards the Lestrade.  “However, this is my responsibility now and no longer concerns you,” Mycroft continued gently.  The coldness of the words did nothing to stem the emotions that finally spilled behind them.  Before Mycroft could say anything more, Lestrade nodded once, recognizing a dismissal when he heard one, turned on his heel and left the Holmes brothers together.    
  
***  
  
Sherlock’s time in rehab was excruciating for everyone involved:  the therapist, the staff, Mycroft and strangely enough, Lestrade.  Despite Mycroft’s insistence that he did not need the detective inspector’s help, Lestrade continued to be a gentle force in Mycroft and Sherlock’s lives.  Oh, Lestrade wanted Sherlock clean and healthy but texting every day for cold cases to solve was just getting to _be a bit much._  
  
 _Honestly, how does the man have a mobile with him?  I thought people in rehab weren’t allowed to have their mobiles with them while in treatment?_ Lestrade thought after the tenth text of the day before eight in the morning.   _How does his brother do it?_  
  
Mycroft had chuckled darkly when Lestrade, frustrated, blurted this last question out.  “Please,” Mycroft said, “just find him some cold cases.  I’ll be sure he sees them.”    
  
Lestrade just nodded and handed the other man a dozen cold cases.  “I’m sure he’ll solve these in no time,” Lestrade muttered.    
  
“I’m sure he will.  He has nothing else to distract him from himself,” Mycroft said and left Lestrade’s office, files under one arm and umbrella under the other.  
  
Lestrade sighed, wiping a hand over his eyes trying to squeeze the Holmes Brothers out of his aching head.  “They will be the death of me, I just know it,” he said to no one in particular and went back to work.  
  
***  
  
 _Idiots.  Everyone here are genuinely idiots  There’s no one here remotely interesting.  The attending nurse is hiding her own addiction to prescription medication.  The director of this facility is in denial about his own son’s sexuality.  The “chef’ is have fiscal problems and my own psychiatrist is dull as dishwater.  I cannot even analyze him without killing precious brain cells.  Honestly, he’s worse than Anderson.  How is it that these people can attain these types of positions that supposedly help others when they themselves are in such need of support?  Ergh, they’ve taken my mobile away again.  Time to flitch the nurse’s.  Oh, god.  Dull.  Dull.  Dull.  Where is Lestrade with those cold cases!  I texted him ten times!  Ten times!  Does that man not answer his phone!  He can’t actually be solving cases!  The Yard would fall apart without me!  Oh, god.  Not bloody Mycroft.  Tedious.  Oh, he expects conversation does he?  Well, I’ll just sit quietly and think of sums in my head.  What?  What is he doing?  He can’t be leaving?  He just go here!  NO.  DON’T LEAVE ME HERE.  PLEASE MYCROFT.  NOT AGAIN.  Oh, god.  Did I say that out loud?  I must delete this line of thought when I can.  Oh, what now?  Why is he giving me that look?  What’s under his arm?  Oh.  OH!  OH!!  Lestrade came through!  Oh, bloody hell.  Fine!  Mycroft as well.  Well, give them here.  Here!!  Why are you doing this?  Oh?  What’s that you’re saying?  Oh, god.  You really **do** want me to talk. Tedious.  Fine._  
  
“I’m just fine brother _dear,_ ” Sherlock finally spat out after nearly ten minutes of intense silence from both brothers.  “How’s the new diet coming along?”  He could not resist a jab at his elder brother.  
  
Mycroft briefly closed his eyes and swept his hand over his face denying Sherlock an opportunity to observe what his brother was feeling.  Sherlock allowed himself a small grin in victory before dropping into his disdainful look.    
  
“Really, Sherlock, such childish behavior from  you.  I would expect something more mature,” Mycroft said snapping his cool aloof face back into place and glancing up at this brother.   _I most certainly will throttle you sometime, Sherlock Holmes._  
  
“I am in _rehab_ Brother mine,” Sherlock said through gritted.  “I am experiencing _withdrawal symptoms_ and should not be expected to hold civilised conversations.”    
  
“Oh, well, if you are in withdrawal then how could you possibly solve these cold cases that Detective Inspector Lestrade so thoughtfully gave to me for you,” Mycroft bit back.  Yes, he knew he was acting a bit childish himself, but sometimes habits were hard to break.  “It was such a nice gift that he gave them to you.  Oh, well.  I suppose I should just bring these back to London with me.”  
  
“Give.Them.To.Me.”  Sherlock wanted to spear his brother with his butter knife.  
  
Mycroft merely raised his eyebrow at him and calmly waited for Sherlock to regroup.  
  
After another five minutes of an internal battle, Sherlock finally said, “please” with a barely suppressed sigh and held his hand out waiting for the files to be handed to him.  He merely grunted his thanks when Mycroft finally did.  Sherlock did not bid his brother good bye as Mycroft stood up and left Sherlock in the dining hall reading the first file.  Mycroft did not hear Sherlock’s softly muttered, “thank you Big Brother,” before diving back into files reading them voraciously.    
  
***  
  
 _Oh, my god.  How is it that these idiots obtained their degrees?  It is truly appalling the types of people they allow to graduate from these universities.  And honestly, how do you expect a person to recover properly without the right kind of stimulate?  Oh, ho ho, Sherlock.  You made a joke.  Pity it will be wasted if I mutter it out loud.  Oh?  You expect me to speak do you?  Tired of lecturing me are you?  Did you need a glass of water for your throat?  Ah, your mistress must have stopped taking your calls.  Your eyes are bloodshot while your pupils are enlarged and your hands are shaking slightly.  Hmmm, interesting.  Not to mention you are back to that horrible cologne your wife bought for you.  Oh?  The cat must have gotten into your wardrobe again.  You’re itching like mad.  No, no.  Wait a minute.  That’s not an allergic reaction.  What am I missing?  What am I missing?  Ah!_  
  
“Mr. Holmes.  Mr. Holmes?  Mr. Holmes, therapy can only be useful to you if you actually speak,” Dr. Carmichael said peevishly.    
  
Sherlock merely leveled his gaze at his psychiatrist.  Several more minutes of silence passed by before Sherlock actually spoke.  
  
“Dr. Carmichael,” he said steepling his fingers, “I do believe you are being poisoned.”  
  
Dr. Carmichael blinked several times before answering slowly, “and how do you know this?”  
  
Sherlock smiled and suddenly Dr. Carmichael had the distinct impression that Sherlock Holmes was a predator just waiting to pounce on his prey.  Sherlock steepled his hands, leaned back and without glancing at his psychiatrist took a deep breath before diving in.  “Dr. Carmichael, your latest mistress has stopped returning your calls, your emails and answering her door.  Your wife, lovely woman, Shoshanna was it?  Has just found out about your mistress and is extremely jealous.  She has decided to take matters into her own hands by slowing poisoning you with that dreadful cologne you are wearing.  Your eyes are bloodshot, pupils are enlarged, throat is dry, skin is itchy and your hands are shaking.  I would estimate that if you do not stop wearing that cologne that you will be dead within forty-eight hours.”  Dr. Carmichael did not say anything for several minutes but could only stare at his patient in fear, surprise, a bit of jealously and gratitude that he himself was not going insane.  
  
“Oh, my god.  I think I’m going to be sick,” Dr. Carmichaels finally said before bolting from the room and running down the hall.    
  
Sherlock only sighed and went back to staring at the ceiling while noises of Dr. Carmichaels’ retching came down the hall.   _Crimes of passion - dull._  
  
***  
  
Two days later, Mycroft came to collect his younger brother from rehab telling Sherlock that he had done well enough in his recovery to be released early.  
  
It had nothing to do with Dr. Carmichaels’ impending divorce or the attempted murder charges against his wife, Shoshanna Carmichaels.  
  
Nothing at all.  
  
***  
  
Two days after that, Sherlock had shown up at Lestrade’s door.    
  
“Sherlock?”  Lestrade asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes and yawning hugely.  “It’s two in the morning.  You’re not high are you?”  Sleep instantly  disappeared from Greg’s face as he peered into Sherlock’s eyes trying to gauge him.    
  
“No, bored,” came the imperious voice as Sherlock pushed his way inside the modest house, ignoring Lestrade’s concern.    
  
“No, seriously.  Let me look at you,” Lestrade said putting a hand on Sherlock’s chest and tried again to peer into his eyes.  
  
“I told you, Lestrade, I am clean and plan on staying clean.  I have no desire to be forced back into rehab by you or my brother,” Sherlock said looming over Lestrade and doing his best to try and intimidate him.  
  
“Christ,” Lestrade muttered staring back at the taller man.  “You’re welcome,”  he said after a breath.  
  
Sherlock eyed him, his mind starting to think of other places to crash for the night.  “Well?”  This was certainly not how Sherlock had hoped this would go.  
  
“Well what?”  Greg’s eyebrows raised giving him a look.    
  
“Don’t you have any cases for me?”  
  
“For God’s sake, Sherlock!  It’s two in the bloody morning.  I’ve just come in and want to get some sleep before going back to the Yard to do it all over again!  Now, if you don’t mind, bugger off and leave me in peace until the morning!”  Lestrade said wanting to shout but keeping his voice down for his wife, Caren’s sake.  
  
Sherlock did not say anything for a moment, instead of peering off into the darkness of Lestrade’s house.  He looked forlorn for a moment before straightening up.  But before he could say anything, Lestrade cut him off.  “Oh, shut it.  Kip on the couch.  I’ll bring you something to sleep in.  But I swear if you nick anything of mine before I wake up in the morning, I’m never bringing you another case again!”  Sherlock was momentarily thrown off by Lestrade’s sudden kindness.  He nodded his thanks and went to the couch and sat down.    
  
“Thank you, Lestrade, this is...very kind of you,” Sherlock said softly.  
  
“You’re welcome.  Just don’t scare my wife in the morning, would you?”  Lestrade said as he went to fetch some clothing.  
  
“Of course,” Sherlock said.  
  
Naturally, Sherlock lied, ( _Everyone lies._ ) well he did try to keep his promise and really Lestrade should known better.  But Sherlock was bored and in the morning Sherlock had reduced Caren to tears.  Lestrade sighed, taking in the vision before him.    
  
“Sherlock,” he said pinching the bridge of his nose.  “It’s too bloody early for this.  Please apologize to my wife for whatever it was you said and _keep quiet._ ”  
  
Sherlock gave him an stony stare before nodding once and saying “my apologies, Mrs. Lestrade.  However, it would be beneficial to the both of you if he heard it from you rather than someone else.”  
  
Caren gasped, her heart-shaped face turned white with fear.  “You monster!  You wouldn’t!”  
  
“No, I wouldn’t.  It is neither my business or my care really, but he is a good man and deserves to know,” Sherlock said giving her a hard stare before walking out of the kitchen and back into the living room.  
  
Lestrade only looked after the man before turning to Caren with an eyebrow raised.  Caren only shook her head before ducking out of the kitchen and back upstairs to their bedroom.  Lestrade heard the burst of crying, sighed again and set out to start breakfast.    
  
***  
 _Several years later..._  
  
Sherlock knew he had an addictive personality.  He could not truly help himself.  But the rush of adrenaline after solving a case - any case really - was just too much of a siren’s call for him.  He had to have it.  And Lestrade was the only one who would deign listen to him, let alone tolerate his none-too-normal behavior.  So, when Sherlock saw Lestrade talking to another detective, Sherlock became very, very possessive.  
  
“Sherlock!” Lestrade cried out, helping the younger man, Dimmock, stand up again.  “What are you doing?  You can’t do that!”  
  
“This idiot is wasting your time,” Sherlock said not giving the other man a further glance.  “You need me.  How on earth did you manage while I was away?”  
  
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were acting like a jealous lover,” Lestrade said muttering under his breath and hustling Sherlock away from Dimmock who was only barely containing his anger.    
  
Sherlock turned around abruptly, his coat whirling around him.  “What did you say?”  
  
“Nothing.  C’mon.  I have some cold cases for you,” Lestrade said pulling the younger man again towards his office and praying he’d stay out of trouble.  
  
There he handed Sherlock two dozen cold case files and told him to have at it.  Lestrade did not hold much hope for keeping Sherlock’s attention for more than six hours.  
  
***  
  
Lestrade was wrong.  It took Sherlock four hours, including several trips to the loo and one trip to stare down the vending machine before deciding on getting nothing to eat.  
  
But, Lestrade thought, Sherlock did solve some very bizarre cold cases.  
  
***  
  
 _Too easy.  Too easy.  Too easy.  Why does Lestrade insist on giving me **dull** cold cases?  Has no one learned anything?  No, apparently not.  Pedestrian.  The whole lot of them.  They wouldn’t be able to function without me.  They **need** me to constantly rescue them from themselves.  I am the only one of value in this entire organization.  Ah, it looks like Donovan and Anderson are at it again.  Do they truly think they can keep this little sordid affair to themselves?  Honestly, is no one else competent enough to observe what is in front of their eyes?  Oh, let’s see the new detective shall we?  What was his name?  Doesn’t matter.  Names take up too much space.  Deleted.  There.  Better.  New detective.  Young.  Eager.  Not too bright.   **Obviously.**  Suit lint free, still lives at home with his parents.  Ah, no.  His mother.  She made him his lunch today.  Cute.  First day on the job?  Ah, no.  Second day, maybe third.  Considered bright amongst his class.  Tsk.  The quality of people the university system turns out nowadays is absolutely appalling.  How do they keep in business?  Oh?  What’s this on Lestrade’s desk?  Ah, looks like the landlord will be forcing me out soon.  Should I have not told Lestrade about the meth lab in my landlord’s basement?  Oh, I’ve missed something again, have I?  Does it matter?  Oh, well.  I shouldn’t indulge really.  I might be sent back to that horrible place again.  Well, I will just have to find a substitute to stimulate my genius._  
  
Sherlock took his time on his walk from New Scotland Yard to St. Bart’s Hospital.  Sherlock paused in his walk and peered around him, noticing everything and everyone.  He sniffed the air.  Sherlock pierced everyone walking by with his gaze.    
  
Something was...off.  But he could not deduce what felt _off_ to him.  Sherlock, never one to be fanciful, felt something strange in the air.  Naturally, these pedestrian _feelings_ were complete and utter nonsense to him.   _Feelings_ were solely reserved for those who did not use their _minds._  Intellect, naturally, superseded everything to Sherlock Holmes.  Despite knowing this, Sherlock could not help but anticipate whatever was going to be thrown in his path.  Sherlock could not help the sudden onset of butterflies in his stomach.  Something was about to change for him.  Something...big.  Was it a new and interesting case from Lestrade?  It couldn’t be, could it?  
  
 _Honestly, why hasn’t Lestrade called me regarding these so-called suicides?  They clearly are not!  Look at the clothing, look at the positions of the bodies, anything!  Ah, Stamford.  Damn, he saw me.  Must I always be cornered by such dull people?_  
  
“Hello, Sherlock.  How are you?”  Mike Stamford asked amiably.    
  
“Fine, I suppose,” Sherlock said dispassionately.  “I don’t suppose you know of anyone who wants to do a flatshare?”  Sherlock had no idea why he asked the cherubic Stamford such a question.  Clearly, there was no one in all of London or possibly the world who could stand to be Sherlock Holmes’ flatmate.    
  
 _People are just too dull._  
  
“Ah, no, I don’t. Last flatmate not work out?”  Mike fixed Sherlock with a crooked smile.    
  
“No, it seems Charlie did not appreciate the subtleties of mold cultures on his tie collection,” Sherlock said smirking at the expression Charlie made when he found out.  
  
Mike chuckled.    
  
“Besides, who would want me as a flatmate?”  Sherlock said dismissively.    
  
Mike chuckled again and bid him a pleasant afternoon as Sherlock walked to Molly’s lab.  He had a bone to pick with a cadaver.   _Bored.  Bored.  Bored.  Shall I commit a murder just to keep myself entertained?_  
  
Several hours later, Sherlock Holmes haphazardly found the perfect solution to his boredom...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry. The true conclusion to this particular chapter will be told in the “Storge” chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	6. Eros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eros: a passionate physical and emotional love based on aesthetic enjoyment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A study of love and characters.  
> 2\. This entire series is an unintentional prompt from [Random-Nexus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus) Thank you.   
> 3\. This has not been Brit-picked. If you see something wonky, please let me know.  
> 4\. Thank you to an [angrylittlehobbit](http://anangrylittlehobbit.tumblr.com) for beta reading this chapter for me. I am indebted to her.  
> 5\. Nothing belongs to me. Let me repeat, nothing belongs to me.  
> 6\. Thank you for reading. I am ever so grateful and appreciative of you.

_Eros:  a passionate physical and emotional love based on aesthetic enjoyment._  
  
Irene Adler did not know what she was getting into when Jim Moriarty set her in Sherlock Holmes’ path; though, Mycroft Holmes was rather insistent that he was the one who set Irene Adler in Sherlock’s path.  If asked, Irene did not care one way or the other.  What Irene was confident about, however, was the knowledge that she would have done everything in exactly the same way even if she knew how things were going to end with her and the younger Mr. Holmes.    
  
Sherlock Holmes was worth all that beautiful trouble, you see.    
  
Kate, the chauffeur/bodyguard (though a very poor one, in Irene’s opinion), knew the implications of Irene’s “battlegear,” but chose to keep her opinions to herself.  She wasn’t paid for her opinions, you see, and anyone with a pair of eyes could see how Irene Adler was just a touch bit smitten with the Man.  
  
Sherlock Holmes was tall, extremely handsome - if a bit on the too pale side for her -  very intelligent and oh so clever.  One never met anyone so clever in her line of work, and Irene bit her lip in anticipation of her inevitable meeting with the great Sherlock Holmes.  She idly turned to her phone and scrolled through the pictures that Jim had thoughtfully sent to her.    
  
Irene smirked to herself.   _Well, this is going to be fun._  
  
One could almost say that James Moriarty had a bit of a crush on Sherlock Holmes as well.  But she would never suggest something like that to him.    
  
Jim could be so touchy at times.  
  
Of course, she watched him from afar ( _Know your quarry.  Always know your quarry_.), read Dr. Watson’s blog ( _Interesting man, that one_.  Irene surely would have explored Dr. Watson further if time had permitted.   _Such as shame, really.  I would have enjoyed finding out what he liked_ ), and reading the newspaper articles ( _Oh, such a funny hat!_ ).  
  
Oh, yes.  Sherlock Holmes was a delicious, delicious man.  

  
Irene had to admit that Sherlock Holmes was either very fearless, very arrogant, did not care or - most likely - was all three.  She had met many men (and women) who were exactly the same as Sherlock Holmes, but what intrigued her the most was his supposed massive intellect.  She had received the files and reports from her various contacts and all said the same basic thing:  Sherlock Holmes was a clever, clever man.    
  
But she was going to be the judge of Sherlock Holmes’ superior intellect.  All men, she knew, had their weaknesses and Irene Adler was going to be the one to deduce _what he liked._    
  
Irene shivered in anticipation as she glanced up and saw her reflection in the large hallway mirror.  She smiled, licked her lips, and hung up her mobile as she replayed Jim’s words in her head.  “ _So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don’t, I’ll make you into shoes._ ”  Irene barely keeping her eyes from rolling.  Jim could threaten all that he wanted, but Irene knew that she would inevitably come out ahead of the game.    
  
She always did, you see.  Even when it seemed like she wouldn’t.    
  
***  
  
Dear Darling Jim had finally sent her the pictures that she knew would signal the beginning of her part of the game.  Irene smiled at the pictures and licked her lips unconsciously admiring the very beautiful Sherlock Holmes.  She was always a sucker for the beautiful, mysterious ones.  Irene pulled up her mental file on the man:  recovering cocaine addict, basic loner,   
  
Irene could be quite vicious when she wanted to be - with or without her riding crop - and Irene wanted to play viciously with Trouble.  She wanted to make Trouble squirm deliciously on the floor before he begged Irene to release him.  Irene wanted to tease Trouble and short circuit that wonderful brain of his.    
  
Trouble seemed to be dressed as a sort of rumpled, frightened vicar with a slight gash and a frightened look on his face.  Irene heard Kate’s stifled giggles as she peered into the camera at Sherlock’s disguise.  
  
Irene was quite ready for Sherlock, making it quite obvious when she walked into the sitting room wearing only her heels and blood red lipstick.  It took all of Irene’s control not to start laughing at his predicament, finding it quite charming actually.    
  
She was knocked off her feet, however, by his deductions of the dead man in the field and the portly driver who found him. Irene should have known then that she was heading into water much too deep for her. She would never stop playing though, it wasn’t in her nature, and that wasn't about to change now. Irene smiled to herself as something her Grandmother Rose once told her echoed through Irene's head: You only have yourself to trust and never, ever someone else.  Do not give your heart away, for you may never get it back.    
  
***  
  
Irene found her way to one of the many safe houses in and around London after escaping from Sherlock and John.  Her escape really wasn’t difficult, what with John (the ever adorable, ever common John Watson) attentively helping a drugged Sherlock.  She was still wearing Sherlock’s coat, which conveniently had his mobile and strangely (or not so strangely) enough, Dr. Watson’s.    
  
She flicked through Sherlock’s phone, reading his texts, looking at his pictures ( _How interesting that they mostly consisted of Dr. Watson, who was obviously not paying attention_ ) and glanced at his contact list.  Only four contacts were listed:  Lestrade, John, Mycroft and Molly.  Again, very interesting, only one woman amongst mostly male contacts.  If Irene had the time, and she was well aware that she was beginning to lose it, Irene would have visited this Molly person.  She wanted to know the one woman who was deemed important enough to one Sherlock Holmes.    
  
Irene did not bother to snoop into Dr. Watson’s phone.  She was much too confident that she would not find anything of interest in it.    
  
But back to business.  After donning clothes(though, Irene would have liked to continue wearing her battle gear) and arranging for Kate to pick her up, Irene inserted her contact information onto Sherlock’s phone - complete with special tone.  She was not completely sure who she wanted to irk more, however:  Sherlock Holmes or John Watson.    
  
After everything that happened between her and the Holmes brothers, and Irene reflected on the situation, she discovered - much to her chagrin - that she had greatly underestimated the good doctor.  Irene had been dazzled by Sherlock’s delicious intellect and dismissed John Watson entirely.  Since then, Irene consciously made the effort not to take anyone at face value again.  She had been lucky that one time but she might not be so lucky the next time.    
  
Irene began to regularly text Sherlock and expecting an answer to every one of her texts, but to her dismay, he did not bother answering her.  Texting Sherlock several times a day became a habit, and the frequency of her texts only increased when she was forced to fake her own death.  Her amusement with the situation only increased when Jim forced Sherlock to fake his own death as well.  Irene supposed that she should have been more contrite with his predicament but she only saw it as opportunity.  
  
Irene tried very hard not to be disappointed when Sherlock did not seek her out during his years of self-imposed exile.  She still texted him regularly however, in the hopes of having him respond.  True to form - he did not.    
  
She tried to remember not to let her feelings get in the way, but if she was truthful, Irene Adler seemed to have fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Only Consulting Detective.  Irene had told John the absolute truth when she told him that she was gay and here she was falling for the aloof, intelligent detective.  She had no idea what to do or say in this madness.      
  
She was irate and the only one around to direct her ire was the ever present, ever faithful Kate.  Irene glared daggers at her other half while suffering from this crisis of sexuality.  Oh, Irene had taught Kate well, especially in biding her time.  Irene was sure that Kate could have told her the obvious that Sherlock Holmes would never return her affections, and before that if he ever did the resulting fireworks would have been deadly.  Instead, Irene saw that Kate only listened to her mistress’s ranting and raving with half an ear, Kate only smiling politely and helping Irene prepare for the day.  
  
Three years after the exact day of his fake suicide was the day that brought both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes back into her sphere.    
  
John was completely by accident.    
  
Sherlock was not.    
  
John, quite literally, limped across her path that day.  Muttering a polite excuse when she bumped into him, Irene looked up in surprise that he had failed to recognize her.  She decided then and there to shadow him to understand why a man like Sherlock Holmes was so fascinated by a man like John Watson.  She trailed after him all day, noting what he did and who he spoke to, but Irene was no closer to finding her answer.    
  
Finally, after a long day of trailing after the limping doctor, she sat down in a quiet coffee shop and pulled out her mobile.  After a few minutes of checking her texts and emails, a shadow fell across her table.  She looked up, surprised to find John Watson standing there with two cups of tea in his hands.  
  
“Mind if I join you?” John asked before setting down the cups of tea.  He smiled gently at her as he settled his leg.  “It hasn’t been the same since he died.  Hell, I haven’t been the same since he died.  Even more so when Mary died,” John said a little sadly.  He noticed her wide-eyed stare and chuckled.  “Miss Adler, there was a reason why I was in the Army and how I managed to survive as long as I did with Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
“I...I appear to have underestimated you, Dr. Watson,” Irene said, swallowing her pride and accepting the proffered cup of tea.  
  
“No need to apologize.  People often underestimate me.  I guess that’s part of the reason why Sherlock kept me around,” he said, sipping the tea.  “God, this tea is awful.”  
  
“I’m sure Sherlock kept you around for other reasons,” Irene smiled.  “Would you like to accompany me to dinner, Dr. Watson?”  
  
“Is that an actual dinner or a euphemism?” he grinned back.  “I could definitely use a proper meal after all that walking I did today,” John said and winked at her.    
  
Despite herself, Irene laughed.  “Oh, I am completely and utterly charmed by you,” she sighed.  “I should never admit that to anyone, but yet here I am.  Well then, to dinner, Dr. Watson, to dinner.  Shall I have Kate pick us up?”  
  
“Lovely,” he said standing and arranging his cane before offering his arm to her.  “Shall we?”  
  
“Indeed,” Irene stood and allowed him to escort her from the coffee shop.  
  
Dinner passed quite pleasantly for them with a witty banter that she had sorely missed with Sherlock.   _Hmmm, maybe this is why Sherlock is so enthralled with this man.  Seemingly ordinary on the outside but simply fascinating on the inside._  Irene ordered dessert when she decided to take her chances.  She had been mildly flirting with John for most of dinner and he, predictably, responded in kind.  But in the dim lighting of the restaurant, Irene could not tell if John was aroused or not.    
  
“May I ask you a personal question, Doctor?” Irene said, leaning towards him and playing with her wine glass.   _He is quite handsome and not at all what I thought when I first met him.  Interesting.  What has changed?_  
  
“I suppose so,” he replied and tilted forward in a mirrored move.  He licked his lips and smiled warmly at her.  
  
“Did you love Sherlock Holmes?” Irene asked, her voice a gentle purr.  John’s reaction was not the reaction she was expecting.  Irene had expected blustering outrage or perhaps a scarlet-faced stammering, but then after a beat, John leaned back and laughed heartily.  John and Irene caught the furtive attention of most of the diners since entering the restaurant and John’s reaction only seemed to fuel their imaginations.  Once he had caught his breath, John leaned forward again, his face an open book.  Several emotions flitted through his face:  joy, love and overwhelming sadness.  Irene’s heart broke for the other man.    
  
“I was quite sure that you already knew the answer to that question, my dear Miss Adler,” he said smiling genuinely at her, his lingering sadness still in his eyes.  “Do you remember when you kidnapped and told me that we were a couple, despite what I thought?”  
  
Irene nodded wondering where this was going.  
  
“You were right.  Oh, we weren’t in a romantic relationship necessarily.  But if I could, I would have been direct with him about my feelings.  I would have said to hell with my conflicted emotions and my declarations of being “not gay”.  To hell with it all.  But I didn’t.  I was too scared and had no idea of what was coming up,” John leaned back and closed his eyes briefly before he regarded her again.  “I haven’t the faintest why I fascinated him so.  Was it because I accepted him for who he was?  That I didn’t want to change him?  Couldn’t change him?  Perhaps I fed his ego enough.  Or wasn’t scared off by him.  I don’t honestly know, Miss Adler.  And I can’t ask him,” he finished sadly.  
  
All her senses screamed at her to tell him the truth.  But somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard Sherlock’s voice commanding her not to.  Instead, Irene smiled sadly and patted his hand.  They passed the rest of the evening in comfortable silence, not speaking of anything important, and when the evening came to an end a certain understanding passed between them.  
  
“You fell in love with him too, didn’t you,” John stated.  
  
Irene smiled.  “Yes, but he was never for me.  I would have only wanted to mold and bend him into the shape that fit best into my life.  You never wanted to change him.”  
  
John smiled sadly.  “It’s a shit life we lead sometimes.  Good night Miss Adler.  Please don’t get into any trouble.”  
  
“Where would be the fun in that?” Irene winked at him.  “Good night, Doctor Watson.”  
  
***  
  
“You’re back,” a deep voice said to Irene in the darkness when she arrived home later.    
  
“Are you going to reveal yourself to him?”  Irene replied, feeling the thump of her heart increase.   _Damn the man._  
  
“Eventually.  It is still not prudent to do so,” Sherlock said.  “Ah, please do not turn on the lights.  It would make killing me that much easier.”  
  
“Killing you?”  Irene sighed and started again, “where have you been for the past three years?”  She winced, hearing the petulant tone in her voice.    
  
“I have been...occupied,” Sherlock replied, not remarking on her tone.  He had not moved from the armchair in the dark corner of her room.    
  
“Has this anything to do with Moriarty’s web?”  Irene asked, settling on her couch opposite from him.  
  
“Yes.”  Silence reigned between them when he did not elaborate.  “Why were you following John today?”  
  
Irene sighed, berating herself for missing two things today.  “I wanted to understand.”  
  
“Understand what?”  
  
“Why John Watson fascinated you so.  For all intents and purposes he seems so pedestrian,” she said, kicking her heels off and rubbing her feet.  
  
“But then he surprised you,” Sherlock said.  Irene’s eyes finally adjusted to the darkness.  On the surface, Sherlock seemed the same, but Irene knew better.  One would develop scars after working tirelessly to rid the world of Moriarty’s web.  
  
“Yes.  Yes, he surprised me.  John really is more than he seems,” Irene said and smiled into the darkness.  She received no response.  “When will you tell him?”  
  
“Soon,” Sherlock responded.  
  
“He’ll most likely hit you.  Kiss you probably.  But most likely punch you,” she said.  
  
“I’ve had worse,” he said, his voice amused.  
  
“I’m sure you had,” Irene said.  “May I offer you anything?  I’m not sure how long you’ve been here waiting for me.”  
  
“Yes, that would be agreeable,” he paused.  
  
“Is there something else?”  
  
“May I stay here tonight?”  
  
Irene blinked.  “Yes.  Yes, of course,” she said regaining her calm.  “Doctor Watson will be rather jealous of me.”  
  
“No he won’t.  John, however, will be furious with you knowing of my apparent fake suicide.”  
  
Irene chuckled.  “Probably, but I knew you were alive long before this.”  
  
“How?”    
  
“Since your rescue, I have found myself enamored of you,” she said bluntly.  
  
“Expected.  But I cannot and will not reciprocate,” Sherlock replied.  
  
Irene smirked.  “I don’t expect you to reciprocate in any capacity.”  
  
“Then why tell me?”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
Sherlock leveled a gaze at her, no doubt trying to deduce what she was thinking.  Irene sat on the couch, perfectly still, letting him read her.   _It must be easier this time around.  I do have clothes on this time._  “Yes, it is,” he replied.  Irene smirked a little.  
  
“Stop reading my mind,” she said.  
  
“I’m not reading your mind.  I’m merely observing.  Your expression told me all that I needed to know.”  
  
“You cannot keep this up for much longer,” she said, all humor vanishing from her face.  “He may have been having a good day today, but it cannot last.  I can see it in him.”  
  
“I know,” Sherlock said.    
  
“Then let me help you,” Irene said.  She noted the pleading tone in her voice.  Never in her life had she begged someone, not even in her darkest hour did Irene beg.  But now she was begging Sherlock to let her help him.  Irene wanted to feel needed by someone, anyone.    
  
“I can’t,” he said, standing up.    
  
“Good night, Irene,” he said and left quietly, ghosting a gentle kiss on her forehead.  
  
Irene did not bother wiping away the tears, not sure if she hated the situation or herself more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. One more chapter and then I can tuck this child to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are not necessary to my mental well being. But if you see something a wee bit off, please let me know.


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